


Slowly, And Then All At Once

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit Not Good, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:27:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some nights, when he's had a pint too many, John can feel Sherlocks arms around him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one is going to hurt, dear readers. I have no beta, so be kind. More Chapters to come.

It wasn't long before John stopped caring.First he stopped caring about his work, then his appearance. And finally, after all else ceased to matter he stopped caring about his health. His sister had once quoted John Green when describing her slip into alcoholism; "I fell in love like you fall asleep, slowly, and then all at once." He had asked her if that had meant that she loved alcohol, and she had said that no, she did not love it, but it was quite besotted with her. He had snorted at the double meaning.  
He fell into alcoholism the same way. He forgot to tread lightly and ended up slipping into the arms of a stranger. The worst part was that whisky had stopped being a stranger, and became almost like a loved one. He spent more and more time alone with it, and his thoughts. Too much time out in the cold with only the dull warmth of his belly for comfort.  
About seven months after the fall (he refused to call it a jump, instead pretending that the ground had pulled Sherlock instead of him jumping) he had stopped going to surgery altogether. Mycroft and Lesrade had tried at first to rid him of his new friend, but had given up after one too many violent fights. There was only so much that they could give to a man who didn't want it. Mycroft had tried to stop all of it by threatening to take away the monthly stipend that Sherlocks trust fund kept pumping into John's pocket, but John called his bluff and that was that.  
So began his fall into oblivion. And that was when the dreams began.They were dreams first of course, and not nightmares until much later. It started out looking like a cold pool in a desert, and became a not so cold day in hell. That was not the beginning though, the beginning was wonderful. It started like every other night, with a stiff drink and a good cry. John had fallen asleep drunk on the sofa, as was becoming the norm. He stirred a few hours later, slowly pulling himself up from the couch and floating through the room. He realized he was sleeping because of the whole hovering in the air thing, but it didn't bother him in the least.  
John could hear the water running in the bathroom, and drifted slowly towards the door. When he opened it he could see a form through the steam. As he got closer his visibility decreased until all he could see was a grayish white fog. He felt a cool hand take his arm, and didn't put up a fight. The hand drew him close to the figure as the sound of thunder approached. Suddenly he was barefoot on the asphalt outside 221b. The thunder was accompanied by a bright light, and he realized he was standing in a downpour like he had never encountered. The rain fell so hard on his body that he felt his knees going weak. Just as he began to fall the same hand drew him up again and into its arms. He smelled the body holding him (tea, formaldehyde, a touch of clove) and had a sudden realization. He knew that scent. He knew that scent well. It was the same scent he had tried to linger in every night that he slept in the much to large bed in the much too lonely bedroom downstairs. He had fought to keep that scent with him, going through closets and drawers finding it in coats and ties, and bedsheets, and then nothing more. It was the scent of Sherlock Holmes.  
John woke with a start and sat up with his head spinning. He automatically regretted sitting up so fast and he felt nausea overcome him. It had been a dream, but he was thoroughly soaked. It took him a second to understand that he was not covered in rain water, but instead his own sweat. He sunk back into the couch, for once not minding the ache in his head. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore, because he had found Sherlock.


	2. The second time around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds his way back, temporarily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> army days, bit not good.

The next morning John took a long hot shower. It was the first shower he had taken in days. He almost hoped that the steam would bring back memories from the night before, but it did nothing of the sort. The dream was the only thing on his mind for the entire day, and he felt himself drifting back towards it with every step he didn't take out of the house. Maybe, he thought, if he fell back to sleep on the couch in the same position the dream would come back.  
Trying to fall asleep was tougher than he thought. He laid for what felt like hours with his eyes closed and yet nothing happened. His next plan was to collect some pieces off Sherlocks clothing and try to find his scent again.  
After laying in Sherlocks bed covered in bits of his clothing did nothing, Johns' resolve started to give. It only took twenty minutes to get so drunk that he had to find the couch on his hands and knees. Moving across the floor as the world began to shake, John could almost taste his reward. As soon as he had reached the couch his breath caught in his throat.  
The cry, 'medic, medic' rang out in the distance. Just under his fingertips was a cold reminder of a past life. He couldn't see in front of himself, so he had to feel out what was there. Cold damp wood met his hand, and he felt grit between his fingers. He smelled death and gunpowder. He knew exactly where he was.It almost felt like home.  
He tasted the blood before he saw it. A copper taste that threatened to make him vomit. He started to feel the heat and pain building in his shoulder as the sound of artillery bit into the sky. He put his fingers to his shoulder and they sank in deep. The tissue brutalized and torn. Bloody and pulsing.  
He felt his whole right hand enveloped in the cavern that opened up within him. As he began to see starts the artillery fire began to deepen and turn into a thunderous roar. Then he felt the rain. It came down on his face and washed away the tears he didn't realised he had shed. His hand and knees felt the sand wash away beneath them as the asphalt of baker street started to bite him. He felt a strong arm grab under his arm, struggling to help him to his feet.  
He let the hands help him up and draw him into warm arms. He was being kissed slowly all over his face and shoulders. The warm lips pressed against his and he let them take him. They marked him as their own, leaving first soft kisses and then bite marks up one side of his neck and down the other. He smelled Sherlock again, and as he looked up for his eyes he was gone.  
What was in front of him now was 221b. He turned on his side and vomited on the floor. He had never felt so empty.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> deleted a few paragraphs. i decided that john doesn't get any renewed hope. he doesn't get to get better this time. from now on it's all downhill.

John was angry at himself for getting sick all over the floor. That was too much damn alcohol. His knees hurts as he wiped and cleaned the floor in front of the sofa. No matter how amazing it was to be kissed in his dream last night, to be enveloped in Sherlocks scent and feel so safe, he couldn't remain happy when he woke up alone. 

He had been having nightmares for years now, and although none had ended in an embrace or redemption, they had all been worse than the real world. It would be a role reversal now if he had anywhere to hide in his dreams. Just because his waking life was utter shite didn't mean that the sandman gave him any leniency.


End file.
